If in the terrain of I jessup
in a starched Sunday dress sinless
& lamblike they can’t help ogle
politely into handkerchiefs
like let me wipe that dust from my eyes
their coughs not phlegmless pocketed
from sight then a line of them gleams
in bright light woolen suits stifling
as saunas like they’ve been waiting their
whole lives to be baptized in sweat
how many times you’ve spent your last
dime the wallet’s empty bloatedness
a metaphor for longing or
foolishness I can’t decide
how many times you’ve been late
on the rent? the jury is verdictless
waiting in the restroom of a CVS
for the pee stick test’s blue sign of the cross
or its negative red, not the relentless
summertime hue of a field of blooms
he loves me, he loves me not